Birth of a Legend
by The Ladies Luck
Summary: This is how the legend of the Invisible Nine was born. A Pumpkin Scissors fanfic. May expand later on.


**A Note From Lady Bad Luck:** This is my first contribution to a fandom even more severely underloved than MAR, that of Pumpkin Scissors. I wrote this all in about half an hour, edited it, and posted it, all in one go. I just couldn't get the idea out of my head. I hope you like it enough to review.

Birth of a Legend

Tanks were a foot soldier's worst nightmare. Several-ton monsters of steel and death, moving about on tracks that crushed everything beneath them, capable of bulldozing through buildings and over forests, they struck fear into the hearts of all that stood in their way. Men of flesh and blood, it seemed, simply had no chance against them.

Except for the Invisible Nine.

Rumours started, as they will, during the aftermath of a short, vicious pitched battle in the northern mountains of the Empire, where a platoon of soldiers had come across a train of Frost Republic fighters. The train, which included a single tank, had been crossing a dry riverbed when the cry went up, the Empire's soldiers swarming down off the flanks of the surrounding hills. Gunshots filled the air, and both sides fought for their lives, the Frost soldiers strategy centering around their tank. For the first fifteen minutes of the battle, the roaring of the tank's engine and the dull boom of it's cannon-fire dominated the sounds of fighting.

And then, something happened. None of the men, captives or Empire victors alike, knew exactly what had gone down, not even the commanding officers of the platoon, but after recording to countless eyewitness accounts, the scene was found to have gone something like this.

The stones in the riverbed were slick with blood; treacherous and slippery, with no purchase to afford flat-soled army-issue boots. The tank was close- very close- and the sound of its massive engine rumbled over the screams of dying men and gunfire that filled the valley. The air was icy, and carried the tang of blood like a dark and gruesome aura. No soldier could see anything beyond the shortening of his own life, and everyone in the valley that day fought tooth and nail to avoid that final eventuality.

Apart from the presence of the tank, the odds were weighed on the Empire soldiers' side. They outnumbered the Frost soldiers two to one, and they had the high ground and the element of surprise on their side. Except for that damned tank, they should have won within minutes. But with it firing into the battle from the middle of a dead zone where no man would go for fear of his life, their soldiers were losing their nerve. The pompous Major who watched from the ridgetop was seething with anger. His superiors had promised him that he need not fear tanks anymore, so what was happening? His men were getting slaughtered with every blast!

Then, by the edge of the dead zone, something blue flickered. A figure, bloodied and covered by a heavy green army jacket, burst out into the emptiness, surrounded by the pale blue flickers that emanated from something half-covered underneath his jacket. He held a gun in his hand, and as the tank fired off another round, broke into a steady lope towards it. The turret turned, the deadly cannon still smoking, and with a crack of thunder, another shell burst out of it, just clipping the lone soldier on the shoulder and slamming him backwards several feet, to lie crumpled in the dirt.

But just as the Major on the ridge was dismissing him as a battle suicide, he hauled himself to his feet, continuing on towards the tank, his gun clenched tightly in his hand. The cannon fired again, just missing him, and again he continued his inexorable journey across the dead zone.

The cannon fired. He got up, and plodded wearily onwards.

None of the soldiers in the riverbed had noticed anything amiss yet, and with a final dash towards the tank, ignorant of the many injuries that surely lurked under his coat, the lone soldier leapt up onto the tank's metal casing, aimed his gun at the tiny viewing window on the front of the cabin, and fired. Glass shattered, and the tanks slewed wildly, spraying gravel everywhere and clouding the air with fine river dust. The man hung on grimly, stretching to fire into the interior of the tank again, and the steel monster at last groaned to a halt.

The major stared, transfixed, as the wind that blew over the riverbed stirred up the dust and blew a curtain of it over the battle, obscuring his view. Down in the riverbed, no-one had caught more than a passing glimpse of their mystery saviour, but when the cannon stayed silent, the Empire soldiers regained their nerves. The battle was all but over.

Rumours spread, as they do, and soon the legend of the men with the blue lanterns was born. ATT-901, the tank-killers, were established. Their legend spread through the ranks of the tank drivers, and though the rank-and-file soldiers had no idea what was happening, the idea that tanks weren't invincible spread through their minds.

And then the war ended, and the Invisible Nine vanished back into the shadows.


End file.
